Although not possessing as large a population as Virginia City in its boom years, Denver in 1870 was growing steadily with five thousand residents. After earlier fires and floods, churches and newspapers, banks and mercantiles had all been rebuilt of sturdy brick and stone. When Rory and Beau Jenson rode into town, they bypassed the imposing wide streets north of Cherry Creek and east of Laramie, where mansard roofs and Gothic spires were crowned by wrought-iron railings, all glowing like fairy-tale creations beneath the newly installed gaslights. Their destination was the unsavory district where prizefights and other illegal affairs were winked at by the local police. “The Bucket of Blood has good whiskey, and Blackie Drago will put us up with a clean room,” Rory said to his employer as they stopped in front of the livery and dismounted. “Y'all know Denver?” Jenson asked, surprised. “I've made a few friends, all on the shady side of the tracks, I confess.
